Sounds like something out of a bad vid, Lon thought as he started moving forward again with Captain Molroney and the Norbanker militia. “We’ve got to take this hill.” He snorted. The addition to the battle on the flank was undetectable in the valley. Beamers’ slight noise did not carry far, and two extra slug throwers could not make that much difference in the sound level. But once Sergeant Dendrow reported that the diversion had started, so did the advance out of the thicket and up the hill.
I just hope the rest of it is on schedule, Lon thought. Colonel Flowers had made one addition to Lieutenant Taiters’ plan—close air support. It would not be much, no more than two of the battalion’s attack shuttles, but it would help. They had been maintaining high surveillance most of the day, in relays.
Lon had not left the thicket yet when he heard the sonic scream of a shuttle stooping to the attack. The colonel still did not want to risk the craft too low, so the assault might not be as devastating as it could be if carried without regard to possible losses, but even though the aircraft never came below four thousand feet, their rockets and two or three seconds of gunfire could make a significant difference.
The distinctive stutter of a shuttle’s Gatlings was audible over all the small-arms fire on the ground. Four rockets, accelerating from a supersonic launch platform, whined toward their targets and exploded, shattering rock and wood at the top of the hill into millions of shards of shrapnel.
Atop the ridge, the rebels had to abandon shooting at the approaching militia and seek cover. Some tried to take the attacking shuttle under fire, but their rifles were of no use, and neither of the rockets they launched came close enough to lock onto the shuttle—which had already pulled out of its dive and started to accelerate upward, out of reach. The mercenaries and militia made good use of the respite, racing up the slope. Even after the shuttle was gone, the rebels did not immediately return to their positions facing down the hill. By the time they did, Molroney’s militiamen were halfway up the slope.
Then a second Dirigenter shuttle dove into its attack. The rebels were quicker to react this time, taking cover as soon as they heard the noise and getting their antiaircraft rockets ready. But the shuttle was scarcely visible before it unloaded its own munitions and pulled out of its dive, twisting away from the ridge, accelerating away from danger at the highest gee-forces its crew could withstand.
Even the militiamen below had to duck the rocky shrapnel blasted out of the hilltop by this attack. They were that close to the ridge. And before the rebels had recovered from the second air attack, the militiamen were over the top, moving in with bullets and bayonets.
Lon could not afford the luxury of looking around to see how many of the enemy there might be on the hilltop. The nearest were too close. He fired at the first rebel his rifle’s muzzle tracked against and moved to the second with his bayonet. That man was just getting to his feet and never made it. Lon slashed across his throat and he fell to the side. But there was another enemy close then, coming in from Lon’s right, swinging his rifle like a club. Lon ducked and threw a shoulder block into the man, knocking him backward. Before the rebel could recover, Lon shot him, then moved toward his next encounter.
The fight was over in less than ten minutes. There was no slaughter. The rebels did not attempt to fight to the last man. They withdrew under order, retreating down the eastern slope, supported by more troops who had been waiting beyond, on the other hills in the area. Only a few small groups of rebels were unable to escape the fight on the ridge. Those fought until they died or were too badly wounded to continue. Not one rebel surrendered.
“It wasn’t as horrible as I thought,” Lon told Arlan Taiters once the last close combat on the ridge had ended. He was still breathing hard, and his face remained flushed with excitement and effort. The two squads from third platoon had not suffered any deaths or serious wounds; only a few men had picked up even minor scratches. The men in the other two squads—still on the west side of Anderson’s Creek—had suffered no casualties at all.
“Captain Molroney might disagree,” Taiters said, gesturing at the militia leader who was going from one platoon to the next, trying to get a casualty count. “And it’s not over. We’re up here, but we’re not going anywhere anytime soon. I don’t think we faced a fourth of the enemy force getting this far.”
“Any idea just how long we’re going to have to hold here?”
“Well into the night, at least,” Taiters said, looking up. Sunset was three hours away, but the sky was clouding up again. It looked as if there might actually be rain, even though Molroney had said it was too early for anything “really bothersome.” The rainy season was still two months away. “ ’Bout all we get this time of year,” Molroney had told the Dirigenters, “is just about enough drizzle to steam the day up even more.”
“I’m going to have third and fourth squads wait until dark before they try to join us,” Taiters said. “There’s a chance that the rebels will encircle us before then.” He paused. “A damn good chance, I suppose, but even if they do, the squads should be able to infiltrate after dark. If the clouds don’t break. If it doesn’t look as if they can get through safely, I’ll send them to meet the rest of the battalion.”
I wish I could see all the pieces of the puzzle, Lon thought. See where all the different forces are, which way they’re moving. If they had been fighting an enemy equipped with the same sophisticated electronics system the DMC had, that would have been possible—in theory at least.
“As long as they don’t work themselves up to an all-out charge too soon,” Taiters said, whispering now. “If they’ve got enough men out there willing to die to do it, they could run us over in no time flat.”
If they’re Divinists, they’ve got men willing to die, Lon thought. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting the wave of fear that came over him. His paternal grandparents had lost relatives in the early stages of the Divinist Uprising on Earth, before the North American Union’s army had a chance to mobilize to meet the threat
The mercenaries and militiamen were forced to stay down. The rebels did not mount a full-scale offensive before sunset, but they did apply pressure, staging small raids partway up one section of the hill or another to test the defenses occasionally, and sniping from the neighboring summits constantly. Those were near enough the same height as the one Lon was on that there was danger to anyone who was at all incautious about staying low. Defenses were improved. Rocks were moved. Soil was scraped away for slit trenches, the dirt piled up in front, or packed in as mortar between stones.
Molroney and his men cared for their wounded as best they could without trauma tubes. Most could be stabilized, but two men died of their wounds before sunset. Their bodies were placed with the other militia dead on top of the hill. Those who had fallen in the creek or during the ascent had been left behind. The dead were relieved of ammunition and other supplies that might be useful to the living. Even the weapons and ammunition of the dead rebels had been collected for possible use.
As soon as darkness settled in, the amount of incoming fire decreased by two thirds. Only a fraction of the rebel rifles were equipped with nightscopes, and the night was unrelieved by any glint of starlight. The cloud cover was too thick, and lowering. Captain Molroney predicted fog during the night. “It can get so thick in these hills that you can hardly see your hand at arm’s length,” he told Taiters and Nolan. “And cap all the noise as well. Best damned sound insulation you ever saw. Them rebels could walk on up without us hearing or seeing them.”
“Not a chance,” Taiters replied. “We’ll see them. Fog won’t affect our night-vision gear. It would even make it a little easier to see anyone coming in. Greater temperature difference between the environment and the hot bodies. The one thing fog would do is make it easier for me to bring the rest of my men in from the other side of the creek.”
Molroney nodded slowly. “You do bring ’em in, make sure my people know where and when. I’d hate for any of your men to get shot by us by mistake.”
The two mercenary squads already on the hilltop were spread around the perimeter, two men together so that one could watch while the other slept—or tried to. Taiters and Nolan stood the same watches, as did the Norbanker militia.
It was ten minutes before midnight when the rebels staged their first serious assault. Fog had started to cling to the hillsides and flow into the valley, although the hilltop was still clear. The third and fourth squads from the mercenary platoon had just made it up the west slope at about eleven-thirty. They had moved into positions on the perimeter, giving the defenders more eyes—more night eyes.
The rebels came silently, more than two hundred of them, crawling up the slopes on the east and southeast. Behind them there was no change to the tempo of the sniping. A few rebels got within forty yards of the summit before one of the men in Girana’s squad spotted them. A quick radio call alerted the rest of the mercenaries, and they alerted the militia, almost as silently as the men crawling toward the crest.
It took the mercenaries a couple of minutes to be certain that they had marked how far around on each side the rebels extended. By then the leaders were no more than fifteen yards below the crest, forty yards away laterally. One whole mercenary squad moved into position over the rebels. Lieutenant Taiters signaled Captain Molroney, gesturing, then raised his hand. When Taiters brought the hand back down, quickly, Molroney whistled softly. The militiamen over the rebels started firing down the slopes, unable to see targets until the rebels shot back, but knowing approximately where the enemy was. The mercenaries could see their targets, and fired more effectively. They made the difference. No rebels made it to the crest. Forty died. Most of the rest retreated down the slope, continuing to shoot at the summit as they did.
The second wave came from the north, more men than in the previous attack. This group started its climb while the first was still engaged. They were not spotted as quickly, and there were fewer mercenaries in position above them. As soon as the first shots were fired their way, these rebels got up and charged toward the top of the hill. A series of flares were fired into the air, illuminating everything in a harsh white light.
Molroney ran toward the new attack with a squad of his men. Lon Nolan stayed with them. By the time they reached the north end of the crest, there was hand-to-hand fighting. More than two dozen rebels had already made it to the top, and more were pressing up from below. The few mercenaries who were there found themselves targeted by groups of rebels. The uniforms and helmets of the Dirigenters set them apart.
It was difficult for Lon to tell friend from foe. He was not certain that he knew all of the militiamen by sight, not under these conditions. At first he concentrated on firing at men coming up onto the hilltop. Then he went to the aid of one of his comrades from third platoon. Anyone attacking a mercenary had to be one of the rebels.
Bayonets and rifle butts, feet and fists. The Norbankers, from both sides, were rough-and-tumble fighters, but few if any had any real training at unarmed combat. The Dirigenters were more than able to hold their own, and with the aid of the loyalist militiamen, eventually pushed the rebels off the crest.
They had to do it on their own, with just the few extra men that Molroney had brought along at the start of the attack, because another foray up the hill had begun, coming over the same ground the first attackers had climbed. And then another probe was launched up the western flank of the hill.
Each small battle was a chaotic realm, independent. The men in one fight could not worry about the others. For the most part they were not even aware of them. Even the Dirigenters with radio links were too hard-pressed to pay attention to anything but the most immediate warnings they heard. A fight fifty yards away might as well have been on a different planet.
Once into the mêlée, Lon discovered that he did not have to worry about being able to identify a Norbanker as friend or foe. Rebels attacked. Militiamen did not.
Hundreds of hours of drill in bayonet and unarmed combat techniques paid off for Lon. Reaction had to be automatic, reflexive, immediate. There was no time to consciously choose and choreograph movements and blows. The trap was that the Norbanker rebels did not have the same sort of training. They were as likely to come up with an unexpected sequence of moves as with one that cadets at The Springs or recruits in DMC training came up against regularly. But they were even more likely to come in with no thought of skilled bayonetplay at all, charging blindly toward a target, screaming, trying to skewer an enemy before he could react.
Lon faced two of those. They were easy to deal with and impossible to forget. Block the rebel’s rifle to the side, let the man’s momentum carry him past, wheel, and either club him with a rifle butt or stick the bayonet into his rib cage. Then make sure that the man would not be able to get up again and resume the fight after your attention had turned elsewhere. And the only way to do that was to make certain that the man was dead.
As the fight continued at the north end of the hill, the Dirigenters gravitated toward each other. As a team they were more than the sum of their individual skills. Lon felt stronger, more confident, with men he knew at his side. The more of them got together, the better he felt. Together, the mercenaries pushed forward, trying to force the rebels off of the hilltop.
The rebels gave ground slowly, reluctantly. Many refused to retreat and fell as the attack lost its momentum. Finally, there were no more rebels left on their feet at the north end of the hill. Lon turned to scan the rest of the crest and spotted the other two areas where fighting was still going on.
“Lieutenant? Should we stay here or move to help?” Lon asked.
“Stay put,” was all that Taiters said.
Tebba Girana touched Lon’s arm, then pointed toward the northwest section of the hilltop. Several Norbanker militiamen were firing down the slope. “Looks like another batch of rebels coming,” Girana said. He detailed three men to stay put and keep watch, then took the rest of the Dirigenters at the north end over to help repel the latest assault.
Eight mercenaries took up positions and fired down into the new rebel force, concentrating on the nearest men, sweeping the upper reaches clear. This time no rebels made it to the top. But there were others coming, in other sections. The rebels appeared to be increasing the frequency of their assaults.
It’s not going to take much more to overwhelm us, Lon thought as he followed Girana and Captain Molroney toward the next location, on the east. We’re not going to last till morning. Where the hell is the rest of the battalion?